Tag Archive | magic

welcome to my on-line home!

i’m a druid, trained with the Order of Bards Ovates and Druids. i’m very telepathic and i have second sight. this was very alienating about twenty years ago when everyone thought that if you heard voices and saw beings that no one else could see you must be declared insane, locked up, and drugged with near lethal drugs until you no longer could.

i became a druid as a result of being told by one of the more helpful, kindly voices (spirit guide) that i should get into an organisation that actively encourages and helps telepathic communion with the beings of the invisible realms. i chose the Rosicrucians first off because i’d heard of them, and knew that they were well-respected. i’m still a member, though in recess.

it was through their book-lists and advertising that i came to OBOD. i edited its southern hemisphere newsletter serpentstar for a few years – one of the best things about the druid way and about pagans generally is that many truly believe in fairies, elves, spirit guides, gods, tree spirits, plant spirits and the elementals – all the beings that inhabit the realms just beyond human awareness, whose voices i’ve have chattering in my head and vying for my attention for most of my life. my guide was right. both organisations brought about helpful transformations – and i believe any of the established pagan and esoteric paths would have done the same – and placed me among fey-friendly people.

they helped me to redefine my inherited ‘family madness’ as hereditary seership – a great gift to share with the world. my mother kept telling me ‘it skips a generation’. my clairvoyant grandmother, a gifted healer, spent time in a mental hospital for her visions and voices and a cousin of mine was ‘cured’ of them by ‘psychiatric’ treatment consisting mostly of zombifying drugs.

others of my generation have varying levels of psychic ability too. our poor planet is getting wiser and is much kinder now to legitimate seers and psychics. in this blog, in future posts, i intend to tell you all about the fairies and gnomes and elves and brownies that come thronging to my garden as they throng to any garden where they’re made welcome, and i’ll tell you how to keep them happy and healthy – and what happens when you don’t.

i’ll also talk about the ghosts, guides, angels and other beings, that use our nexuses and pavillions. there’ll also be blogs about the fauns, satyrs, devils and daemons, gods and devas that live and work around and among us too. comments are welcome, especially from other seers – it’s so helpful to compare notes.

brownies – willing helpers

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brownies are the gentle and wise lawgivers of the fairy realms

People who want to make shamanic connections with the fairy peoples usually start by learning as much as they can from books, other seers and folklore to add to their natural awareness and compare notes. You learn quickly that there are many different kinds of fairies, and that they vary from culture to culture.
Then as you become adept at seeing, your notion of what a fairy is usually undergoes a wild transformation. You begin to encounter the many varieties of fairies, elves, nature spirits etc, little and large, pretty and ugly, wise and silly, kindly and malevolent, sick and healthy, friendly and hostile, that your rapidly improving fairy sight reveals to you.

At this stage you may feel a need to focus on direct communion with just one kind of fairy at a time, usually using meditation and attunement techniques you may have learned as a part of a pagan, esoteric or new age teaching programme or similar. You set the scene with beautiful music, crystals enchanted for the purpose, and incense or aromatic oils, herbs and flowers. You centre yourself, your clear your mind, perhaps you might play a drum or a flute, and you open your eyes to the fairies around you.

The fairies will be aware of your preparations and they’ll crowd around to get a glimpse of you, and to let you see them. You get used to the fact that these are indeed people, high-strangeness people, indeed very high-strangeness people; and that some of them are intensely aware of you and are manipulating you with their powerful wills into their view, sometimes competing with each other for access to you. This can be frightening, but don’t panic. When it happens, you can always expect a Brownie to be there for you, to be your trustworthy guide and protector if you ask.

Brownies are among the easiest of fairies for humans to commune with. They are saintly little people about nine inches to just under a foot high, sometimes appearing in hooded garments of soft brown, grey and green colours. They are usually surrounded by a kind of courtly retinue which includes the astral forms of little human girls in their brownie uniforms, and other children.

Probably the word Brownie was originally Brehonie, and referred to a pious and much-loved legal fraternity that was quashed in Britain in mediaeval times so completely that history seems to be repressing the memory of them. Progress in translating their law texts has been slow and very, very fraught.

But folklore recalls the Brownie as an outlawed exile in wild places, sometimes protected by remote households for whom they very generously did useful work in exchange for nothing but food and clothing – taking offence permanently if offered payment. In the old ballad Brown Adam he was banished into the woods where he lived by hunting birds with a bow and arrow.

Children’s lore, often wiser and better informed than folklore because intuitive, situates them deep in the wildest and remotest parts of the mossiest, most mysterious green woods, where they have become invisible to humans, diminished in size to about a foot high. As Brehons once were among the peoples of old Britain, Brownies are are the wise law-givers, counsellors and peace-makers among all the wild woodland fairies, animals, birds and fishes, plant spirits, aerial and water beings, fire spirits and earth kin.

Real brownies are accessible to us through contemplation of this highly developed, consistently recurring image. If you ask them to they are willing to work closely with you as guides and negotiators on your behalf. They aren’t the only wise, human-friendly fairies you’ll encounter in the early stages, but they are omong the most adept at helping us to reorient ourselves appropriately in your newly expanded reality. And they do appreciate their annual gift of a new linen shirt and a good bannock bun – and firewood; only tokens now but once so meaningful!

Paradigms shift again when you realise that to the fairies, you are just one more kind of fairy. We are certainly giants to them, and if we think we’re not magical, there’s many a fairy, and many a quite justly aggrieved fairy, willing to prove to us that we’re just as magically dangerous to them as ever they could be to us. Without some training in stillness and receptivity, our fear paralyses them, our distrust binds them, our mis-visions distort and deform them, our disbelief disables them. The brownies are not just our guides, but our ‘handlers’ as well, to prevent us from harming the other beings with our unruly, lawless untamed magic.

Like many other fairies, Brownies remember being human, indeed many of them periodically incarnate as humans, and may even still think of themselves as human even though they have evolved since their banishment from human culture. They tell me their story as follows. Banished during the Conquest from their honoured place in British society, the few survivors fled singly to remote wild places, hiding in the deep forest to evade the hounds that were used to hunt them. In remote wild lands they survived, but were soon forgotten, except in folk-lore. Others, driven deeper into the forest, found food in abundance there, but were intensely alienated, often utterly devoid of all human company, and dependent on prayer, fairy magic and the guidance of Gaia (who knew just what she was doing) for their sanity.

A kind of sensory deprivation along with the effects of breathing the fungal spore laden air and of eating the occasional dodgy mushroom made these fugitives, credited anyway with magic powers, psychically hypersensitive. They soon began to hear the whispers of the forest, to understand the speech of animals and birds. Sleeping in the moss, feeding on the mushrooms, bark, herbs, nuts and berries of the forest’s bounty, drinking the dew and the heavy nectar of flowers, denied human companions, they soon fell under the spells of the forest fairies. Experiencing themselves to be more and more of their reality and less and less of this, they grew old and died, or they died through illness or the poison of a mushroom and so became part of the woodland community.

Over the centuries, their mentality and their appearance was greatly altered by their new environment, and geophysics of their new world diminished them in size. but they brought their legal expertise to bear upon the many problems that diverse and often competing fairies, fauns, birds and animals encounter in their efforts to create a viable and harmonious community of spirits. Our world was becoming less and less relevant to them, but Gaia had plans for them and us, and in accord with these there emerged the Brownie movement, the organisation for little girls that focused the potently magical attention of generations of eight-to-ten-year-old girls on just the kind of fairied forest environment in which these highly-evolved souls now have their spirituaL centres.

Aided by guiding angels and fairies, during the twentieth century the brownies and these little girls effected a cross-dimensional hand-shake of great importance to our planet, and it was a handshake of such good-will and delightfulness that brownies remain among the best-loved and most trusted of fairy characters in literature and lore. They are good little people, full of kindly charity and love, sweetness and joy, which they spread with the greatest ease wherever they go.

And nowadays they go about quite freely in all sorts of places, appearing in suburban gardens, Japanese parklands,city balconies and the Australian bush, and will appear in a well designated corner of almost any sincerely friendly, safe room if invited. They make charming use of those commercially available little toy doors that you affix to tree trunks and other likely places – not just for fun, but because they help to manifest the magic.

My Brownie guide ‘haunts’ or ‘inhabits’ a 14 inch high paper-maché toadstool with a nine inch diameter top. He explains that he magically bonds with the paper toadstool in such a way as to become sensitive to the thoughts and emotions going on around it. Thus it acts like a remote sensory organ, to which he can bring his whole mind’s attention at will, manifesting visibly beside it for me if he chooses. It’s like having a mobile phone.

His sense of humour is delightful, but he seems full of knowledge to impart as our relationship deepens. I service this shrine and others outside with gifts of food and drink and pieces of shiny metal which they use for money in one of their new toyland-like realms, which they develop for sound reasons, hilarious as they sometimes are.

Toylands? Yes, because expert as they are at bringing peace and sanity into communities of diverse beings, Brownies have learned from watching children play that a being is a being, whether a toy whose soul has been bestowed via the inarticulate love and fantasy of a child, or an angel spirit born triumphantly from the spent corpse of a dying human being, they are all sentient spirits, all worthy of their rights and responsible for their own karma. I suspect they’d find a use for anything if you offered it as a token of good-will.

Between small children at play and all manner of fairies, new worlds of solid reality are being woven all the time from the fantastical logistics and creative imagery of play, and because these new worlds have need of good, wise, fair laws to integrate them into the greater reality, Brownies are invited to participate in the building of them principally as law-givers.

Rapport with Brownies is based upon a mood-sharing which manifests quite strangely to an adult, because it is much more in the emotional idiom of children, or of medieval Brehons. It’s hard to put into words, except words so simple they might even sound facile, yet they possess all the more power for being so comprehensible. They teach that happiness is a medicine, something radiant and good that we infuse our surroundings with when we feel happy within.

We have a duty to be happy. Happiness is an elixir we brew in the chalice of our being, and it is a positive virtue to generate and emanate a radiance of happiness for the healing and comforting of our sad and damaged worlds. They know it isn’t always possible, but they urge us to be happy, to have fun, to make whoopee now and then, and follow your bliss wherever possible, making real inner happiness a goal, really caring about making ourselves truly happy in innocent ways that harm no one. They urge us to cultivate an optimistic disposition, to carry us through the sad times, and to gravitate (perhaps i should say levitate) back to as soon as things improve.
It doesn’t have to be noisy, visible happiness; you don’t have to smile all the time. Just consciously begin to liberate all the natural joy within you. That will not only improve your health and well-being, your luck and your whole quality of experience, it will also make you a well-spring of healing for everyone else around you.

i believe that asimov was an incarnate brownie, and that his laws for his sci-fi robots are real.

the cultivation management and magical use of nwyfre

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a skilfully enchanted amethyst atop a mallee wand

not all druids identify as animists, but many are, whether they know it or not. the word comes from the latin word for a living being or spirit, mind or soul. animism considers the entire universe to be alive and conscious, from atoms forged in the blazing centres of stars through biological life-forms such as the plants and animals of our own planet to the great celestial organisms we see as the stars in the night sky.

many animists add that this all-pervading livingness makes itself intelligible to fey people through human-like plant and animal spirit people, fauns, fairies, elves, angels, benign devils and daemons, elementals, dryads, aerial weather spirits, gnomes, pixies and the myriad nature spirits of many other cultures, the local native cultures in particular, who can help us to attune ourselves to the wider contexts of the extended network they help us to weave.

science tells us that the material world is made of atoms, each one infinitely packed with structure and flow, like the organs of animals or the structures within a cell. they are all impressionable and responsive to stimuli, and capable of intricate proactive negotiation with their neighbour atoms in forming molecules or in their free states. there’s a constant exchange of information occurring across the interfaces between subatomic particles, between atoms, molecules, cells, plants and animals, and between the celestial bodies comprising the galaxies and other great beings of the cosmos. in effect there is a network of communication which incorporates the food web and the human communications networks.

what this means to a magician is that we are in continuum not just with those networks of the primitive contact telepathy of the social animals we still are, or the food-web and ecological systems; or the zodiac magic between us and the planets and stars; or the elemental forces of the material world all around us although all of those are vitally important; but also to the networks we as a species generate: the culture, the mass media and the world wide web.

the sum total of impressions held in each aeons-old atom of earth is like a causal ocean, a ‘ceridwen’s cauldron’, a rich brew of events and qualities, principles and dimensions, garnered from myriad ‘text-rich’ events and encounters in deep space and deep within the atmosphere, on their way to becoming part of the earth and during their evolution ever since. whatever is communicated across any of the interfaces forming this universal network is the result of much process, sorting of data, filtering, censoring, deleting, expending, filing away, etc, and the resultant emanation of meaning-replete patterns of flow and disturbance is nwyfre.

it is mindfully controlled by the negotiation among all its parts. it can be the mere nuance of an awareness glimmering instantaneously in the heart of an atom as it comes into being in a distant galaxy not yet born; or the sights and sounds of the whole of a hollywood movie; or the symphony of subtle, complex, deeply meaningful impressions we receive when communing in silent or chattery meditation with a tree or when reading a book.

if, as i’ve said, this nwyfre forms a vital, mindful fabric of constantly changing stimulus and response, cause and effect, stasis and flow, not unlike the turbulence and flow of human experience, surely by understanding it we can learn to read it, manage it skilfully and use it magically to optimise our own personal experience and to practice good magic worthy of the name of ‘druid’ in our troubled world.

just as our bodies are made of vast constellations of aeons old atoms, so our minds are constellations of knowledge, memory and thought, incorporating detailed impressions from a lifetime of experience, including all the films, books and music that enrich our lives, to say nothing of the people and animals and even plants that we include among our family and friends and wider social milieu.

any human being is a fountain of nwyfre. that’s why ritual touching is part of life – part of the subliminal knowledge we have of each other. a conscientious druid is able to harness and direct the nwyfre, extracting it selectively from consenting sources or learning to generate it and use it in accord with a finely focused magical intention. this is one of the many things a well-constructed magic circle facilitates, extending and fine-tuning the magician’s focus, power and influence in much the same way as an astronomer’s telescope extends and specialises the vision of the star-gazer, or as a detailed map assists a traveller.

with or without a circle, it’s fairly easy to learn to see a flow of nwyfre-rich energy using a wand or staff or a crystal with at least one good ‘shooting’ point, or just your fingers, at least to start with. you may just spontaneously happen to find yourself ‘energised’, exhilarated or vibrant with some exciting radiance from dancing or gardening or meeting with friends, or you may prepare yourself by casting a circle and doing a simple or elaborate light body ritual followed by three awens for attunement, or using chant, drumming or ritual dance.

when you feel radiant with power, hold your magical tool or your bare hands close to your solar plexus and breathe steadily, willing the nwyfre from your body to flow into the object and fill it.

you might chant something like ‘healing power in my hands (wand, crystal, etc), magic power in my fingers (etc), or just ‘magic fingers, healing hands’ or you might try a dramatic, commanding ‘healing

nwyfre flow!’ speaking words aloud or in our mind helps us be focused and articulate about our intentions, which helps the magic. this flow is easy to see, especially against a dark backdrop. it is similar to the energy that can be seen flowing between your fingertips if you hold them an inch or so apart and bring them slowly together. in a healthy, energised system this radiance appears sparkling clear.

you can easily train yourself to see the radiant electromagnetic field, which is a major ‘smart’ carrier of nwyfre, especially surrounding your fingertips. it is at its brightest and most active when you are in tip-top health, happy and confident and have optimised your relations with your social, natural and magical environment enough to have the good will of most of your neighbours, since like it or not we are all contributing to a collective mentality and nothing is more empowering than the common consent.

even a beginner can successfully charge magical items such as charms and amulets, or cast exquisite circles for seasonal rituals, fizzing with good, exciting, effective magic, using a wand, hands, symbolic items or crystals or whatever charged in this way. or it can be discharged beneficially into the life field of a sick friend or animal, plant, garden, city or town, or even the earth itself via whatever symbols you choose to attune for the purpose.

it is important to understand that the flow we see here is not ‘in’ everything, but is like a specific medium which carries nwyfre, and flows around the all material objects, even subatomic particles

and vast galaxies, like the interstitial fluids that carry the biochemically coded information around the body of an animal or plant. it’s real and dowsers can detect it, and it registers on scientifically designed sensors as real energy capable of having real physical effects.

there are good reasons to believe it is not inert – not much in nature is – but interacts with the information it carries in a way that you might call ‘smart’, trafficking intelligently organised nwyfre about from one part of the system to another, from the atmosphere to the birds, for example, and vice versa, keeping us all separate but engaged in a kind of eternal conversation, in the loop, so to speak, in accord with the wisdom of the higher collectivities, the spirits, devas and angels, for example, in negotiation with the inner potential mediated through our genes and our humanity. or from the tip of a well-crafted wand to a collection of symbolic items selected for inclusion in a druid’s egg.

the interstitial fluids of a human being convey chemical information, while the electromagnetic field is rich in what psychics call psychometric energy. it’s a confusing term, referring to the psychic impressions that certain gifted people can gain bringing past scenes to vivid consciousness upon holding an object such as a ring or watch that once belonged to someone else. the psychic might see and hear actual scenes from that person’s life, or from the past experience of the actual object held. so whether you are reading it or not, it is high resolution data which different beings can extract their own species specific experience from.

this is as true of objects as of people. so the nwyfre channelled by the ring in the psychometrist’s hand is the equivalent of a psychical experience or a dream or a vision in human awareness. of course it is possible to argue that the ring has no consciousness of the experience flowing through it when a human being wears it next to the skin, within his/her electromagnetic field, but how could anyone know? for all our pride in human science with its most advanced knowledge of the biochemistry of thought and emotion in human beings, the ‘seat’ of consciousness remains a beautiful, totally elusive mystery.

as so often the case in magic, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. anyone who takes a few simple steps in developing a working interface with a properly enchanted magical tool risking little or nothing in a few moments of suspended disbelief now and then will observe without doubt that the tool responds as a responsible being in its own right. wands communicate intelligently, crystals bond with you, druid’s eggs call you and feed from you and need you to incubate them, and stranger things happen as you go deeper in. it is therefore customary to address your tools with great respect and treat them as kindly and considerately as you would a room-mate or dancing partner.

allow, for example, that they have minds of their own. they are constantly streaming experience and communicating experience-rich energy to everything around them, just like everything else. experienced practitioners will agree that your magical life becomes deeper, richer, friendlier and more meaningful if you talk to your wands, show concern for their welfare and ask with pleases and thank yous, and give them treats: a song, a poem, incense, a ring.

everything contributes impressions to the nwyfre circulating and percolating through the material world. it’s like white noise, and like the colour white, can be made to show its inner spectra. theoretically it should be possible to do this in an infinite number of ways, but nature uses a restricted palette, leaving a major part of the artistry to us.

magic is a kind of metaphysical technology. it uses mind over matter to influence events using metaphysics, governing the flow of change, the shifts of emphasis, the management of morphic resonance etc., through symbols, ritual, metaphors, stories, myths, fantasy and folklore and the sentimental and practical poetic of everyday life.

almost all of this magic involves the management of nwyfre, so it is worth dedicating some time and energy to the study of it. a web search will show you how others are using the word, and how they make use of whatever they think it is. keep adding to and enriching your sense of what it is by trying to maintain an awareness of it in everyday encounters. meditation upon the word itself is sure to be rewarded by an enhanced sense of what it means.

advanced meditators should theoretically be able to penetrate to the collective sense of the word and thus intuit a deeper sense of its meaning, but most of us are not quite so advanced and besides, our cooperation in crafting new meanings for these old magical words is all part of the magic.

naturally the most important magical tool is yourself, and the nwyfre you carry and communicate will pervade your magic, so let it be healthy, vital and smart, and may its radiance be for the good of all beings.

whatever happened to sheilah?

whatever happened to sheila?

‘daughter, what would i do without you?  you’re my only comfort now that your three brothers have left home. how cosy we’ll be with just us.’

‘well, mama, what if i marry?’

‘who would marry you? you are too skinny and ugly. besides there’s no one for you here that isn’t your cousin or nearer. even if there were there’re prettier girls in the towns. a man not smart enough to look there isn’t worth having. you stay here with me.’

‘well, johnnie ransome catches up with me sometimes when i’m going for the mail, and we walk to the post office together. he’s nice. i think how it would be to be married to him, and what our babies would look like.’

‘johnnie ransome? never. he’ll be like his dad, a lazy drunkard with no ambition and no manners. i would never consent. you don’t need a man. stay here with me… was that someone knocking?’

sheila got up from the table and crossed the room to the door. an icy wind came bustling into the cottage and swirled some snowflakes across the floor. sheila leaned out and looked right and left and then closed the door.

‘can’t see anyone,’ she said, ‘it must have been a branch hitting the window,’ and returning to the table she began to clear it, but her mother stopped her. ‘we’ll have our coffee first, then we’ll clear away.’

she was pouring it when something began to clatter at the door and it didn’t sound like a branch tossed by the wind. sheila was sent once again to open the door, but found no one there.

they were settled either side of the fire with their coffee mugs on their knees listening to the keening of the wind when they both heard the knocking again. ‘well it can’t be a branch,’ said sheila, ‘because there isn’t one that could hit the door.’ she opened it again and this time she looked not only left and right and straight ahead, but also up and then down, and she screamed.

there on the step was a tiny man not quite up to her knee.

recovering herself she remembered her manners and invited him in. another swirl of snowflakes followed him in and she shut the door quickly. her mother stared in amazement.

‘step up to the fire!’ sheila said. ‘i’ll get you a seat.’ she found the kitchen stool and a feather cushion and brought them to the fire. they looked far too big for the tiny man at first, yet when she had placed it for him he sat right down upon it and it was exactly the right size, though nobody saw anything change.

the tiny man smiled gratefully. he wore pin-striped trousers and tails and carried a tall top-hat and cane. his shoes were well-mended and polished. ‘terrible weather to be out in. kind hearts you have indeed!’

‘well, i hope so!’ said the mother, fully recovered. ‘have you had tea? we have but little but what we have we share. sheila, bring the man a plate of something.’

sheila put some fish and a piece of bread and butter and some salad on a small plate for him. it looked enormous as she handed it to him but as soon as he took it it appeared just the right size, though nothing changed.

the food cheered him, and they found they had some beer for him, and they passed the night in pleasant conversation, the two women hardly noticing that he told them nothing about himself but made them tell him everything about everyone in the district. he was clearly enjoying himself – even got up to sing a song. at last everyone was tired and sheila made him a bed by the fire. it seemed very big but when he got in it looked just right and he went straight to sleep. the women tidied the cottage and went to bed.

sheila awoke in a strange bed in a weird little room all angles and planes and the little man bringing her in a cup of tea.  he seemed very pleased. the teacup looked hopelessly tiny, but as she reached for it it became just the right size, yet didn’t seem to have changed. the tea was delicious and gave her strength. the little man showed her a beautiful green dress and a pair of green leather shoes, and told her to put them on and come downstairs.

she did so. the staircase looked like a doll’s house staircase, but as soon as she stepped onto it, it was the right size for her. the room downstairs had the same weird proportions as the room she’d slept in. the little man was playing a harp but he stopped when she came in and smiled.

‘where’s my mother?’ she asked.

‘there!’ he pointed to a mirror, and sheila was amazed to see that it was like a window looking into the world she had left and she could see her mother in it. she was staring at sheila’s bed wringing her hands and weeping. on sheila’s bed was a wooden stick.

‘oh, my poor mother!’ was sheila’s first thought. ‘now she’s got no one!’

‘she’ll be all right,’ said the little man, taking up his harp again. ‘this’ll make her famous for miles around and all the neighbours will suck up to her for some of the reflected glory.’

‘you’re a wicked, bad fairy, and you’ve carried me off. what do you want with me.’

‘well, better manners than that! you should be grateful. you never had that nice a dress before, or such good shoes.’

sadly she said, ‘they’re wasted on an ugly girl like me.’

‘you’re not ugly. johnny ransome didn’t think so.

‘oh johnny!’ for an enchanted moment she imagined him seeing her in the new dress. vanity! ‘but now i can’t have him!’ she cried.

‘your mother was right – he’s not worthy of you.’ he played a splendid crescendo of golden notes. sheila went further under his spell and became lost in the beauty of the melody, emerging when it ended to find a sumptuous breakfast laid out on a tiny table that was just her size when she sat at it. she was getting used to the strange interplay of proportions.

as she ate she glanced at the mirror again and saw her mother’s cottage full of neighbours, police, clergy and reporters, and her mother playing up to them like a starlet. sheila drank some delicious fruit juice and returned to the mirror just as the cottage faded and the road she should have been on at that time appeared instead, at the very place where johnny was accustomed to meet her.

johnny was there and yet it was pretty maggie mason who came along, just minutes after she would have, and she heard their conversation.

‘where’s sheila this morning?’ asked johnny.

‘haven’t you heard? she’s been taken by the fairies. one came and got her last night and left nought but a stock of wood. you’d better go and see her ma.’

johnny’s eyes grew wide but then he shook himself and smiled at maggie. ‘so i will – later on, but i think right now i’d rather go with you.’ he leered at maggie and she gave him her arm and off they went billing and cooing like two lovers.

‘so he didn’t want me,’ sighed sheila. ‘and you wouldn’t want me. you’re the wrong type, to say nothing of size. i want to go back to my mother.’

‘don’t take on,’ said he, but sheila began to cry and to complain and to expostulate until it took all his most strenuous harp-strumming to calm her. she finished her breakfast and washed up, putting things in cupboards as happily as she did at home. then he gave her a book to read.

how bright and detailed were the pictures, how evocative the prose. sheila was captivated, running across scented fields with golden-eared dogs, riding a fine white horse towards a moated castle, dancing among beautiful ladies and handsomer youths than she had ever seen. page after page she turned, getting more and more deeply absorbed in what she read until she could smell the flowers, hear the birdsong and the music of the fifes and harpsichords and see the beautiful faces of the characters.

once she pulled herself up just as she was identifying as one of the fairest damsels of that magical fairy kingdom being presented at court, and to chasten herself, looked at the mirror to remind herself of her own face. but the face that stared back was that of the fairest damsel she’d ever seen, and she gasped.

the fairy smiled and stroked his harp strings. she returned to the book and was soon lost in it, and lo, from among that glorious crowd of fairy dancers stepped the handsomest young man of them all, and bowed low. though he used a language she’d never heard before she found herself understanding every word. soon however the music swelled and the dance began. sheila found that she knew the steps and was soon gazing into the young prince’s eyes and never doubting that he was falling as deeply in love with her as she was with him.

and suddenly, when there she was, in the arms of this prince as truly as she’d ever been anywhere, she heard the book slammed shut with a comfortable thud behind her, just like a closing door! turning quickly, in the final fluttering of its pages she saw the last of the leprechaun’s smile, and caught the fading echoes of his rapidly disappearing harp.

but then her young prince swept her away in his arms and they danced their dance of pure pure love…

inevitably, satan, centre stage.

once upon a time in a magic land far away there were wise wizards and witches of bright honour and shining virtue who practiced circle magic to procure and maintain the harmony of our lands. their circle had four quarters with a tower or tel at each of the four directions and a priesthood in every tower or tel. and there was in the middle a meadhall where the priesthood (christhood, in q celtic) of the centre (saint, or santa) kept a charitable table for rich and poor. they so  won the trust and gratitude love and high esteem of the people round about that they were given widespread political power. they bestowed schools and universities to raise the people to their own level, and they organised food production and distribution, commerce, trade, the arts and the just and fair management of resources. they recruited their new members from the elite of all nations, and were proud of their ideal of equality for all.

but gods though they were, they were, like us, gods mediating their divinity through the limiting, still somewhat distortive mind and imagination of the mortal human being and they sometimes quarrelled and snitched at each other though they were always ashamed, and they were always sorry after.

but one day a quarrel broke out that was bitterer than any before and it flared up out of control and sparks flew and efforts to pacify it only inflamed it the more. and why did not santa, standing where the diameters cross, why did he not immediately ring the bell for dheoch-acha and they sit down to peace talks? because he was one of the shameful miscreants. that’s why. water wouldn’t douse him, air wouldn’t scatter him, earth wouldn’t smite him, fire couldn’t burn him, nothing could quieten the towering majesty of his wrath.

and who was he quarrelling with? the southern priesthood, the southerner, sasana, satan sa’an sun god. set. seti. radiant god of light and warmth and magic and love.

and the santa cross/christ/priest conquered sasana, sowson, sorcerer, susanna, hassan, set, seti, satan, sun god ra ra ra drove satan out and barred his way with swords. and cursed satan, and called satan evil, and attributed to satan motives of pure evil..

which would have been all right except that he who occupied the centre, the crossed, christ, priest place, had the power to enlist the resources of the whole world, all the armies of all the bods, gods, guards, bards or pathers (aka cathars), and he constrained them to fulfill his vow to destroy satan and drive satanic evil out of the land. because nothing would restrain the wrath of the santa god.

and so spear-heading the driving out of the moorses, moses, well, black people, dull, dubh, du, diw, dieu, jew people, the santa christ replaced the meadhall meadow in the middle with the watery west, such that the world path is now a western one. after that there was no true christ, because the world was now divided against itself. then the west subsumed the north claiming much norse wisdom as ‘western’ philosophy, and claimed the old world cross-doing religion as a western one. now it seeks to westernise the east.

and for the love of humanity, look what is happening: dang me if it ain’t still anathematising, driving out, purging and ravaging satan, in his southern lands, appropriating whole populations in its superstitious rage and stealing its resources in the process.

o ye tower queens and kings, maybe it was a ‘just war’ but i couldn’t put those two words together in that sequence without bunging it in quotes and observing that they don’t go. maybe that noble saint was brought to book and legally punished for his war crimes. and maybe he was provoked by the fiery temperament of the priests of the fire. maybe it was just plain racism. because satan, sudan, sedan, saudi, was a sun-baked land, and its priesthood and its literate elite, its merchants, its brides, its warriors and its knightly suitors were sometimes dark-skinned, dusky, golden, tan, brown, or black as egypt’s knight. moors.  black. moors. didn’t ‘sambo’ once mean ‘summerboy’? wasn’t he our beloved page? did not desdemona love othello? did not blackamoor swoon with love for amaryllis?

you see, on the northern hemisphere of the world map,

  • north, norns, norse, horse, nains etc (but not normans) were in the north towards the pole, where all diminished to nort, naught, nought, not, night
  • in the east were the isis, aisir, asia, erinnya and their priesthoods
  • and in the watery washt west wet woda woden odin houdin voudun cu wet sail co water all the way to aotaroa (water rower) were voudun, woden, speaking at last thank godbodpathcath english so that we can understand him, uasail!
  • and of course satan was the equatorial zone viewed from the north.

from the south, the equatorial zone is northern, so there is no slur on equatorial people who live south of the equator, but them northern southerners – let’s not propogate curses against whole peoples we do not know.

so that might have been all right but they were going at it hammer and tongs and it was only natural that someone would get hurt.

and when the tumult and the shouting died, the captains and the kings departed and lawkes a-mighty there’s roma on the throne hurling execrations at satan and requiring us all to do the same on pain of death….

let’s stop. let’s stop cursing and slandering entities we have never met just because an enraged king was racist long ago.

let no curse or slur from pulpit or pew on book or electronic media ever have power to harm the innocent, the beautiful peoples of our planet.

awen awen awen.

i invite with love and affectionan the northern hemisphere’s sat kindly benign spirits of satan to dance with our southern hemisphere northern spirits of fire, warmth, light and magic,

needlework

needlework
with a whoop of joy, moondragon snapped the last thread, plunged the needle with its remnant of thread into the pincushion along with the last of the pins and stood up, flinging the finished cloak into the air like a roustie throwing a fleece, so that it spread itself in the air and fell to the floor almost fully expanded, exhibiting its intricacies and subtleties to full view. she swept away the wrinkles and stood, arms akimbo, smiling widely, waiting for praise.

well, there was no denying its richness of shape and texture and colour. pieces of all shapes and sizes had been painstakingly hand-stitched together to create the thing. there was no counting them – it could only have been a few hundred, but they were arranged so seemingly haphazardly, with the colours so screaming at each other, the shapes jagged and chunky like shards of something shattered, forming such weird twists and turns, spiralling inwards like a staircase here, and juddering off into crazy visual cacophonies over there, each strenuous writhe of shape and shade vying with the others for focus and form. but could you call it beautiful?
but then, as its maker had said, aesthetics weren’t the point so much, although once you understood the functionality, the beauty of the metaphysics became apparent, and you’d look upon it with the eyes of love and see at last its adorableness.

janvas was willing enough to take her word for that. he was wiccan enough to know not to enquire too deeply into another path’s mysteries if you’re only casually interested. he kept a respectful distance and circled it slowly, his hands spread palms out before him for protection. it was a jumbled tumble of shattered patterns of glow and glitter, smooth shine and texture, and among the melee of mostly deep, jewel colours there was a lot of black, silver and gold. light flashed and sparkled from strings of diamantes, beads glinted and glimmered and mother of pearl glowed mysteriously, tiny skulls grinned and goggled and doodahs and geegaws dazzled and danced amid the glancing glitter of tiny mirrors stitched in firmly with gold threads and hair-thin silver wires. in the slow shift of light as janvas circled, symbols and signs, zodiacs strange and wild, chimeras and serpents and magical devices of all kinds seemed to appear slowly, blaze brightly for a moment and then vanish gently in the general dazzle.
seemingly haphazard, yes, but replete with a kind of keen cunning, of purposeful attention to detail, of magical savvy – supplied by the needle, at least in part, because moondragon had enchanted it and charmed it, and invoked its dreaming soul; and if the darned thing has winked a lot, is winking, will be winking, will have been winking, and wills to be winking still, in candlelight and firelight and oil lamplight and firefly light and daylight and electric light and by the light of the seeing fingers of those who’ve sewn on into the dark of night, and of the memories of blind seamsters, over so many generations that its sense of humour can scarcely be doubted, so too did moondragon’s. for it’s true, even the well-defended janvas suddenly caught himself viewing this newborn cloak through the magic needle’s eye. he shook it away with a laugh. such are the hazards of having a druid wife.

he said cautiously at last, ‘good needlework,’ and so it was, nine stitches to the inch, three good tight little stitches one on top of the other at the start and finish of every thread. every seam straight as a die. best work she’d ever done. he was still regarding it critically, a strange smile on his lips, so she waited to hear more. eagerly, gazing attentively into his face so as not to miss a single nuance of his reaction, which is why she saw the ever so slight startle that was almost a twitch although he remained expressionless, perhaps his muscular tension increased a little, and his hand slowly rose to stroke his beard. she saw him shift the focus his gaze, soften the energy of the radiance of his eyes, soft-gaze for a moment and then bow his head ever so slightly, and though she couldn’t now see them, she guessed he was in conversation with the elves who had helped her with the design.

she was not wrong. there were three, the tallest a little man about nine or ten inches high, thinnish, bearded, not yet middle-aged, wearing a tall hat and a soft dark cloak which sometimes lapped open a little to reveal much bright clothing underneath, and high boots wrinkled at the ankles and buckled over the instep. he had nodded and smiled and presented the tallish elf woman who was on his left, who wore a skirt of busy patchwork almost as vibrant and glitzy as moondragon’s and a dark cape that covered her arms to the elbows. she waved a huge needle, the size of the one moondragon had used, trailing several times her own length of thread thick as a rope at him. that was where moondragon had seen janvas smile.

the elf had danced excitedly around a two foot section of the hem of the cloak, pointing out the superlative features with the tip of her needle, the acmes and epitomes, fancies and exquisitudes, so pleased and proud it was bursting out of her in gloriously radiant smiles and giggles of glad mirth. the third was to the right, and presumably too doubled up with the excitement of it all to be included in the introductions, rolling about on his back on the cloak’s broad hem, waving feet and fists in the air, shaking and rocking and rolling about with tears of laughter streaming from his eyes. he was smaller, and so perhaps younger than the other two and the thought occurred to janvas that that elf was probably best ignored. the tallest elf’s eyes flickered briefly towards him, amused, and janvar nodded again, and even forgot himself so far as to smile back. the merest glimmer of a smile it was, but moondragon saw it and smiled too.

‘very nice,’ he said, pulling himself back to his own centre of self with an effort, because the elves’ enchantments are seductive, and anyway, he wanted to see more. ‘put it on.’
‘i will,’ said moondragon, swooping forward and snatching it up. ‘i’m going to the lugnasadh festival in the hills grove this evening. oops, i’m running late. gunna do big magic for planet earth, you know, the way we do. kiss me, my love. i must fly.’

in a single movement she landed a kiss on janvar’s lips and, flinging the cloak over her shoulders, spun off into a wild pirouette. the cloak, a-jangle with its bells and beads flew out in a full circle around her like saturn’s rings and then as she stopped, it speedily wrapped her in many tightening spirals like tentacles, and POOOF!
she vanished.
and how she flew, and how she flew, and the elves flew with her, clinging to the fringes of her cloak . . .

wild as druids

and wild as druids, we live

close to our noble natures,

taking easily our instruction

from mother-mind,

whether through birds’ beaks

and elves’ mouths,

and incidental ogham in the brittle sticks

and prickles of the thorn,

or through well-worn domesday tomes,

gnomes traditions,

paleolithic spells,

and the wisdom of the well,

or through high flying on swift winds

of wonder and amazement

in the sky cathedral

of the many minds

to hear the majestic choirs of

gaia’s cerebral mind

in meditation and in ritual

and in flight,

wild we live as druids

close to our tribal natures,

talking easily our inner vision

in town and forest still.